The weather changes, the paddocks turn to golden stubble as the hay comes off, blowflies and mozzies arrive.
Soon the sun will scorch down on us again. They reckon that it'll be a hot summer this year.
With a high fire risk. That's always a worry with city folks running around the bush, being dickheads. Couple of years ago, there they are in a valley that hasn't been burnt for 70 years, high summer, 47 C, extreme fire danger, an there they are lighting huge fires - to keep warm- and running through a campsite with blazing branches- then to top it off, they stick a gas bottle in the fire. Dickheads.
Anyway, here's a nice bush photo taken during spring at a place I know (where the tourists don't go).

Now there's pigs, then there's pigs. I certainly wouldn't want this fucker chewing on my leg.
I've fed them roo guts and capes and the next day it's just a furry turd left.
Mostly they will bolt from you, and if cornered attack - due to being cornered, and hence threatened.
If you happen to be the biggest baddest pig in the bush, threatened?? yeh right...bring on the entre.
(hats off to the unknown pig hunter)

It's hard to believe that places like this would be found inland up north, full of fish too. Nice. As it is starting to heat up already. There's been a few days of 40 C plus so far - might be hot when summer gets here.
I can remember some days when I was mining in the Pilbara that it got to 58 C in the pit. Sort of just hits you like a furnace when you go out in it.

The sun was doing no more that starting to lighten the eastern sky as Russ slid they key into the ignition. It slid home with a smooth action and turned easily, the electrons rushed to complete their journey via the starter motor and the 308 v8 fired up straight away, ran choppily for an instant then settled into a comforting steady idle.
Russ fired up the first joint of the day and let the beast warm up as his thoughts passed over what the day may hold. Business first, then get some miles in.
The beast gave a snarl out of the twin exhaust sytem as Russ fed it to first and second, rubber strips lay smoking in the road. Spotlights showed the roadside bush racing past, probably going a bit quick with the roos at this time of year but the ally bull bar should take care of them ok. The thought had no sooner passed through his mind when skippy came barrelling out of the scrub, intent on going to the approaching light. Twin 150 watt spotties bore down on the confused animal as slim dusty lamented the pub with no beer. The roo suddenly realized that it was not in a good place and scuttled off to the left, then turned and leapt into the front of the barwork, hitting with a solid thump, before spinning off to the side in a blur of intestines, splintered limbs and spray of blood. The eagles and crows would have a good feast on the addition to the nightly carnage laid out in a smorgasboard across the country.
It was not yet light when Russ entered the shitty suberb where his business interest resided. The fucken lowlife cunt. Quietly the door opened and Russ got out, taking his favorite pick handle with him. As he had expected the rear door of the run down fibro shack was open, evidence of the nights festivities lay strewn every where and the stench of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke lay heavy in the air.
The sound of snoring came from a dingy room in the rear and Russ headed that way, carefully stepping through the litter of jacks bottles and beer cans. Kurt lay flat on his back and didn't look to have a care in the world, until the pick handle smashed into his ribs and changed his view on the day. Rolling out of bed with a choking noise, he made a feeble effort to get away. Yeah right! thought Russ, typical of this cunt, and give Kurt a poolcue like tap in the back of his scone sending him back to sleep.
Two bottles of jacks, an ozzy of dope and six hundred bucks give or take twenty, well it was a start. Russ rolled up another joint, had a swig of jacks and let his eyes roam around. Kurt sat duct taped to a reasonably solid wooden chair, which was itself taped to the wall studs showing through the smashed inner lining of the rundown house.
Kurt woke up again, not so sure that this was going to be a good day anymore. Russ smiled at him and Kurt knew he was not having a good day. "where is it cunt?" asked Russ quietly and Kurt shook his head, bad move.
The preprepared strip of tape went over Kurts mouth and the pickhandle came down with a crunch onto the top of his right foot, breaking just about every one of the delicate bones inside. Kurt passed out again.
The growing number of pains made Kurt wary about opening his eyes again, but he did, and Russ smiled at him over a smoking joint. " last chance, where is it you dumb cunt?", Kurt frantically gestured with his eyes towards the battered fridge. Having already checked this out Russ was a bit sceptical, but, deciding to go through the motions, he got up and took a closer look.
Sure enough there were fresh scuff marks on the floor where it had recently been moved out of place. Looking at Kurt, Russ made a moving gesture and Kurt nodded enthusiastically.
Russ moved the fridge away from the wall and revealed a small trapdoor underneath, which opened easily to reveal a large wad of fifties, more dope, a large heavy feeling sealed file envelope and a sawn off shotgun. A rough plan started to form and Russ smiled.
"Like a drink of water - you must be a bit dry Kurty babe". Russ pulled a gap in the tape around Kurts mouth and gave him a couple of glasses of water, then taped him up again and gave him another tap in the head. Kurt went out like a light and Russ got busy, after all, it wouldn't do to have Kurt blabbing to all and sundry who had been to visit him.
The shotgun rested comfortably under Kurts chin, securely taped in place, a string running to the handle of the bucket under Kurts chair. Kurt opened his eyes and winced - Russ smiled at him and offered another glass of water. Kurt drank.
Then Russ retaped his mouth and explained to him how the shotgun was now fired by the presure exerted on the trigger by the liquid in the suspended bucket under the chair. The balance having been finely adjusted while Kurt was snoozing.
Russ smiled and thoughtfully turned on the tap as he left, the water running into the sink should keep Kurts mind off the need to take a leak.
The beast fired into life again and this time quietly idled out of the street, the motor barely disturbing the birds that were stirring in the predawn light. Within minutes they were on the open road and the 308 was roaring along and easily eating the miles northwards. The sun started to stream over the horizon, lighting up Russ's smile as he contemplated the good start to the day.
Three hundred miles away Kurt could not hold the urge any longer and a single muffled shotgun blast reverberated in the morning air.

(This is more made up stuff and no resemblance to anycunt living or dead is intended. If you do not like it, well it's simple - fuck off)

What sort of bright cunt would think to him(or her) self, "I reckon that I'll try out my nuke. In the big hill over there, might even blow it to fuck!~ Never mind that we happen to live in an earthquake prone zone lets see what happens...well fuck me and there's an earthquake..now they think we done it again... - speccy sunset but".

Fucken dickheads.

There's no place like home. Airports are like getting stuck in a shopping center where you cannot leave, and I detest shopping centers - or anywhere where there are heaps of people. I 'spose I was lucky not to have any fat cunts sit next to me on the plane - thank fuck for that. My rule on planes is establish control of the armrests early, get on first and claim them! Fat cunts tend to overhang their seats and spread into mine. " Excuse me, do you mind retracting yourself into your seat a bit you fucken great lump of blubber, look at you laying there like jabba the fucken' hut, drooling over the airline shit food and splattering me with it in your haste to stuff it down your maw. Fuck off before I stick a fucken harpoon in ya."
And as for the glorified waitress's, rude cunts most of them. It doesn't hurt to say gooday back to someone you stuck up mol, or maybe crack a smile. Well fuck you very much.
At home the dog and all the other wildlife seems to have managed to stay alive. Free range chooks lay the eggs, free range dog eats them. I fall into bed and sleep for 17 hours. Home sweet home.